


we have not touched the stars, nor are we forgiven

by orphan_account



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Set after the War of Wrath, There are no happy endings in the Void
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-22
Updated: 2018-02-22
Packaged: 2019-03-22 12:14:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13763937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: It helps.Little things, the weight of the glass in his hand, the closeness of his brother, his warmth, the scent of him, salt and sweat and sea air. Wine stained lips and stormy grey eyes, and it was all he could do to not let his thoughts drift again, but now to better days. The mingling lights of Laurelin and Telperion, the feel of soft grass beneath his hands -- both hands, both -- the lilting song of his brother’s harp and the way his heart was so naive, so unburdened that it raced -- days when those moments were his worst sins.





	we have not touched the stars, nor are we forgiven

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Hankhounddog](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hankhounddog/gifts).



> For the eternally patient HankHoundDog, I hope you enjoy it!
> 
> Title taken from Richard Siken's _Snow and Dirty Rain_

“It was the right thing to do.”

“Do not say such things to me.”

“You have been drinking,” Maedhros says, neither a question nor an accusation. It was as all things were of late; merely a truth. Something terrible and painful that they would use as a shield or a weapon, depending on which wielded it, and when had something as simple as words become such a killing thing.

_ Ah, but we know where that began. _ Maedhros thinks, reaching to take the cup from Maglor’s limp fingers only for his brother to tighten his grip.

“So what if I am,” Maglor says in a hiss, pulling the cup to his chest and sloshing the weak, bitter wine over the crude table. “Am I not allowed even this one comfort? We have nothing else, you see --” He laughs then, vinegar and vitriol to rival the wine he was nursing. “No, you do not see, how could you? This is only another part in our story, is it not?”

“I have no time for your melancholy --”

“All we have now is time.”

Maedhros thought to walk away, thought to leave Maglor there in his maudlin, in his self-pity and his rage but his hand grasps the back of Maglor’s tunic, hauling him to his feet and upsetting the chair he had been sitting in.

“You wish to be the martyr and yet you were there right beside me.”

“You would not stop until I agreed to!” Maglor spat, his eyes trying to focus on his brother.

“I did not tell you to swear the oath with father, not once but twice you did so and on your own.”

“Did I have a choice?”

Maedhros releases him then, his lip curling in a snarl. “We all had a choice. Even Ambarussa.”

A sound escapes Maglor then, caught between a sob and something else, something that walks the line between anger and some sort of acceptance. Something buried in that truth that festers bright red and infected but so deep that it could not be cleaned. He regrets it then, the harsh words, this is his blood, his kin, the only thing he had left but a bond that ran deeper than blood and oaths. He wants to take it back --  _ but what,  _ and did he even know -- but done is done, as he had always said --  _ had he, had he really? _

“Brother,” He says softly, his hand clenching at his side then, as useless as his mangled arm so that he could not even hold Maglor without a memory of it all; the violence, the loss, the --

\--  _ the oath. _

_ Who now shall release us? _

“You are right,” it came soft, what might have been a whisper was as loud as a shout in their shack, their shelter, a kinslayers’ hideout and his stomach might have turned once at the thought of it but the pain echoed from his palm in his heart, beat against the fragile bars of his ribcage begging for a numbness he did not deserve. “Nelyo, I --”

“Hush now.” Maedhros says, and for all he tells his arm to lift, to pull his brother against his chest, to touch him, to do  _ something _ it does nothing but hang limp at his side. 

_ Who now shall release us? _

“What do we do now?”

“I thought I said hush,” but there was no fight, no sharp edge behind the words. He is tired,  _ they  _ were tired. Had they not suffered enough, when would they at last know peace? Maedhros can feel it, as sure as any tangible thing, this growing apart that threatens to become a chasm between them when they were all they truly had left in the world. He closes his eyes and the darkness there seems too black, too bleak, something rushing headlong at them with no escape. It was unavoidable, it had to be. What now was left for them?

He opens his eyes, swallowing around the stone in his throat and tries to focus, only to see Maglor watching him. There is a knowing sort of sadness in his brother’s eyes, even as he asked.

“Where did you go, Nelyo?”

“Nowhere,” he says. His hand moves at last, reaches for Maglor, his fingertips skimming along the edge of his tunic sleeve. “Nowhere, I am right here.”

A question hangs in the silence between them. It had always been there, gnawing at the backs of their minds,  _ what now? _

Maedhros can see the long years of their lives stretched out before him then, more nights like this one, oil and sparks; fear and uncertainty becoming rage and desperation and turning to hate, to resentment.  _ What now _ ; because he could not answer that, for either of them and that awful hopeless, useless feeling festered like a poison, seeping into his bones and hooking thorns behind his ribs until he could not breathe.

“You are leaving me again.” Maglor says, and there it is, that creeping desperation. It shook in his words, in his voice and it is all wrong. Makalaurë, Kanafinwë; he should never -- he should not -- “Nelyo, look at me. Stay here with me.”

It was all wrong. “I should be the one comforting you.”

“And you do,” Maglor says, and it is he who closes the distance, he who can reach out and touch like he still believed there was hope for them. And maybe,  _ maybe _ \-- “Drink.” He presses the wine glass into his hand. “It helps.”

_ It helps _ . Little things, the weight of the glass in his hand, the closeness of his brother, his warmth, the scent of him, salt and sweat and sea air. Wine stained lips and stormy grey eyes, and it was all he could do to not let his thoughts drift again, but now to better days. The mingling lights of Laurelin and Telperion, the feel of soft grass beneath his hands --  _ both hands, both --  _ the lilting song of his brother’s harp and the way his heart was so naive, so unburdened that it raced -- days when those moments were his worst sins.

Little things now,  _ it helps.  _ Lips part, a soft intake of air -- and they are both still breathing at least, is that not enough -- and a whisper, “Maitimo.”

“Do not call me that,” He breathes against Maglor’s lips, tastes the wine there, bitter and sweet and he is drowning in it, in him. How many more regrets, and he keeps his eyes open because he needs this, even if he does not think he deserves it. He needs this, and maybe Maglor will hate him for it, it can be just another thing to add to his list of crimes. No, and he knows better, they will simply not speak of it ever again. Maglor will smile and turn away and tell him goodnight and the guilt will be all his while his brother --  _ this is his brother, this is -- _

“Maitimo,” and when Maedhros tries to pull away there are hands on him, his shoulder and the twisted stump of flesh where his right should have been, and he can feel them now, every jagged scar cut into his skin. All the years, from the now-lost days when there was still light across the ocean until here, right here, and it burns under his skin until his breath sticks in his throat, throbs inside his chest. “You will always be my Maitimo.”

He tries to shake his head, wants to say something,  _ anything _ but his lungs will not fill with air and there are fingers under his chin. There are no words, there is no fight between them, there is just this, now, whatever this is --

This time he  _ sees.  _ Keeps his eyes open so he can  _ see _ , the tilt of Maglor’s head, bouncing up onto his tip-toes -- like when they were kids and Maglor wanted to look him in the eyes,  _ Be serious Nelyo! --  _  the soft brush of skin over skin and his hand slides to Maglor’s waist, pulls him close because he needs --  _ they _ need this.

Maybe there is hope for them yet, maybe they can start over, maybe they can still try.

“Stop thinking,” Maglor begs, presses against Maedhros desperately, trying to bring him back to here, to now. “Stay here with me.” His hands move from Maedhros’ shoulders to his chest, presses his fingertips over his heart and feels the racing beat-beat-beat of it beneath his skin. His hand is warm through the thin tunic, and those fingers trace over a raised scar there, follow it across his chest and where it intersects with another. Follows it down now, lower and lower until Maedhros grabs his wrist. Maglor’s eyes blink up at him, so dark now, a summer storm rolling in over the horizon and he thinks he can smell rain on parched black earth. 

There is thunder in the distance, a flash of lightning through the cracks in the shuttered windows of their hideout and lights up the angles of Maglor’s face, so he can see the worry, the hesitation, the fear -- not of this, not of Maedhros, but a fear that he will be pushed away,  _ again. _

_ Stay here with me _ .

He could deny his brother nothing, not even if had wanted to. He lets go of his wrist, slowly, so slowly, and there are fingers at his waist now. They slip under his tunic, tease along the edge of his breeches, over the skin there.

“I have you,” Maglor whispers, sliding his calloused fingertips against the sensitive tissue of Maedhros’ skin, over fresh and faded scars. “Be here with me, Nelyo.” He leans up again to press his mouth to where his brother’s neck meets his collarbone, soft and gentle, a brush of sweetness against him.

“I am here.”  

Those gentle fingers drift, flighty, down the planes of his stomach to his breeches once again, tentatively palming the front of them as he places a line of kisses to his brother’s neck. “It’s just us,” he murmurs with warm breath against Maedhros’ skin, and Maedhros can  _ feel _ him bite his lip at the touch. “Only us.”

He tries not to think about the full truth behind Maglor’s words, tries not to think at all. Sinks his hand into Maglor’s hair and tangles his fingers in it, pulls the soft, dark locks and pulls him into another kiss. Claims Maglor’s mouth with his own like he needs him to breathe, and maybe he does. Fingers pull at the ties to his breeches and there is a line, and for all it had blurred over the years there is no going back from this.  _ Stop, _ he tells himself,  _ for once just stop caring. _

“Please,” Maglor breathes against his mouth and he is lost, pushes past that line as he pushes his brother back, back against the bed until they both fall onto it.

Maglor’s legs fall open to let Maedhros lay atop him, half-hard and jutting against his brother’s hip. He rocks up and slides his long fingers into Maedhros’ choppy hair, mouth falling open as his head tilts back to expose the pale column of his neck. “Maitimo,” he breathes, like it’s a prayer, hands sliding down Maedhros’ neck to the broad width of his shoulders, to his back.

“Perfect. I need you,” he tells him urgently, voice losing its musical luster to be replaced with something desperate, something needy and lustful, something Maedhros realizes he enjoys hearing.

Rain falls heavy on the roof and he believes -- he  _ knows _ \-- somehow Maglor has taken the storm out of his eyes and made it real. Something to hide them maybe, or maybe it is just part of the magic of him, that raw ethereality that captured him even in Valinor.

“Tell me what you need,” he whispers, and even over the rain it sounds so loud in the room, “what you want.”

“I need  _ you _ ,” and the tremor in Maglor’s voice betrays the intensity of his desire. “I want you to fuck me, Nelyo,” and the shock of it makes his brother arch beneath him. Maglor’s body brushes against the hardness between his legs and makes him shudder. Maglor sucks in a breath and pulls Maedhros’ shirt off his shoulders, tosses it carelessly on the floor beside the bed and tugs at the hem of his breeches to pull them down.

His cheeks are red, eyes bright with desire, even for Maedhros. Something twists in his stomach, but Maglor notices -- he’s always seen right through Maedhros -- and chases it away with careful fingers, leaning up to suck enticingly on Maedhros’ lower lip.

“It’s only me, Nelyo,” he says quietly, to soothe. “My Maitimo -- ah, beloved brother of mine!”

He tries to get out of his own head, and it’s Maglor, his body beneath his hand, warm and soft and alive that does it for him.  _ If I had both my hands _ , he thinks, but even if he had a hundred it would not be enough because he wants to touch him everywhere all at once. Maedhros tugs awkwardly at his brother’s clothes, and with a laugh Maglor strips his tunic off. Maedhros wants to tell him,  _ no go slow _ but as his brother bares himself he moves between his legs, and he thinks for a moment maybe he was meant to be there all along.

The look on Maglor’s face makes him think that that’s the correct line of thought; wanton and hopeful and pleased all at once.

Without an ounce of shame Maglor reaches between the two of them, letting out a low sound when he wraps a hand around both of them, strokes their cocks together tentatively at first, gripping tighter and working his wrist faster after just a moment.

“Maitimo,” he whimpers, eyebrows furrowing and mouth falling open.  _ Beautiful _ , Maedhros thinks, as Maglor loses himself in this, the two of them. “I’m -- wait,” and he lets go, chest heaving. “I want you to  _ take _ me.”

“ _ Fuck _ ,” Maedhros hisses, tries to think of something,  _ anything _ they could use to ease the way.  _ There was not even anything for their burns _ , and Maglor’s hands are on him again, pulling him back.

“Stay with me,” he says, half-choked and desperate.

Maedhros rolls his hips, panting now, “I will not hurt you.” But Maglor’s free hand goes to his mouth, sucks on his fingers and then moves between his legs and  _ oh-- _

Maglor hisses when he starts fingering himself, cock twitching between his legs, and he’s obviously done this before, Maedhros realizes. Maglor is working himself open diligently and expertly, stretching himself with little pleased sounds. Maedhros can’t stop watching, those perfect musician’s fingers disappearing into him and sliding back out in a smooth rhythm.

He shudders when Maglor pulls them out completely, reaching for him while sucking on the fingers of his other hand. Those wrap around his cock, cool against his flushed skin -- Maedhros shivers -- and Maglor makes another pleased noise, spreading his thighs and moving Maedhros further between them, aligning the head of him.

“Maitimo,” he says, eyes clear and bright when he looks up at Maedhros. “Tell me when.”

_ I will not hurt you _ , but he knows then, in a rush, that it was a lie. Because he  _ wants  _ to, wants to mark and claim. Wants to hear Maglor scream for him, wants to leave bruises on that perfect, pale skin. He grips his brother’s thigh, digs his fingers in until Maglor gasps, feels him jerk away and rolls his hips forward again, presses into him as he hisses, “Tell me you still want this.”

_ Tell me you are not miserable here. _

“I want you, brother,” Maglor gasps again, even as Maedhros can see the pain on his features as he’s forced open. He bites his lower lip again, hard enough to split it this time, as Maedhros shoves his cock into him. “Fuck, Nelyo,” he hisses. The look he gives Maedhros is irritated, even with a spot of blood on his mouth.

“What is it?” Maedhros asks, tone almost mocking.

He doesn’t expect Maglor pushing back on him, pulling more of him inside with a hungry look. “I told you to  _ fuck _ me.”

_ We all had a choice. _ “As you wish,” he growls, moves his hand from his brother’s thigh to his throat, curls his fingers there and presses, almost braces himself as he feels Maglor suck in a desperate breath beneath his palm. “Brother.” And the word is a hiss; he does not know what has come over him now but he does not fight it either.

Maglor feels hot and tight around him, like  _ burning _ , feels the same as when he held the Silmarils again, the way his skin has blistered and for all the despair that would come later all he had felt in those moments was  _ victory _ . Maedhros rocks his hips into Maglor and something slips, those thorns hooked behind his ribs begin to pull and he thinks  _ you would have turned your back on the Oath, on father, on me. _

“Is this what you wanted?” He asks, curls his fingers tighter -- one, two, three, feels Maglor struggle for air and then -- lets go, watches his brother suck in a breath past trembling lips.

Maglor wraps his calves around Maedhros’ waist, tugs him farther in and breathes deep. There are already red marks around his throat from Maedhros’ fingers.

“Yes,” he grits out, clenching down hard around his brother’s cock. “I wanted you. Don’t think I -- ah! -- don’t know what that entails, Nelyo.”

Maglor knew him, then, knew his cruelty -- and knew how to throw it back at him in equal measure. He was the only of their brothers who had ever dared, and who had ever gotten away with it.  _ Perhaps he had always played favorites _ , Maedhros thinks, even as he thrusts forward and buries himself to the hilt in Maglor, writhing underneath him.

“Yes,” his brother moans, chest heaving as he throws his head back. Maedhros reaches out to press his weight against it, palm flat, cutting off Maglor’s air again -- he felt his cock jerk against his belly between them, and a smirk curls his scarred lips -- as he starts to really fuck into him, deep and hard. “Nelyo,” and the sound of it was high-pitched and feverish, pleasured and a little terrified.

_ Good. _

“Is that it?” Maedhros asks, angling his hips to make his brother cry out again. One of Maglor’s hands comes down to stroke himself, the other wrapping its long fingers around Maedhros’ powerful wrist. He lets up a bit on the pressure but keeps his hand there as a message, a warning, a marker.  “Are you enjoying yourself?”

Maglor’s only response is to whine at him, hand pumping faster and faster on his own cock. He opens his eyes to look up at Maedhros and they were hungry, desperate, shiny with tears.

_ Who now shall release us? _ “Who indeed,” he murmurs, closes his eyes and loses himself in it. It’s not enough to sate this itch inside him, this terrible thing that swings so wildly, so viciously between love and hate. He needs more, needs to drag Maglor into this with him somehow. He thinks back to the half-drunk wretch he had found just hours before, just as needy and desperate as now but in a different way; he had wanted absolution, nearly demanded it from Maedhros when it was not his to give and were it even he would not.

They were monsters, and they were monsters  _ together _ .

He thinks about the accusation there in Maglor’s eyes, brief and but a flash of it, but still there. How many times had it gone unnoticed, that lingering lie that said  _ you made me do this _ ,  _ brother _ , as if somehow Maedhros had held his wrists and swung his sword for him. Had possessed his brother somehow and made him kill.

“I never said you did,” Maglor gasps out, his hand stilling between them as Maedhros blinks down at him, as if looking through a fog. He had not known he was speaking. “Brother, please--”

“Shut up,” Maedhros hisses, and Maglor chokes on his words beneath his palm. “Just shut up for once.” He shut his eyes tight and let himself  _ feel _ , reveled in it; the tight heat of his brother, the choked, pained gasps and the way Maglor arches and writhes beneath him, legs tight around his waist. The ache in his own body, every nerve set alight, the sweat at his temples and running down his neck, his own harsh panting.

Maglor’s hand moves back between their bodies to stroke himself, faster and faster in a fever pitch until Maedhros feelt him clench as tight as a bowstring around him. He makes a cut off sound and arches his back, finally spending over his hand and stomach.

“Nelyo,” he whimpers.

“Brother,” Maedhros gasps out, panting, his arm aching from his weight --  _ my good arm, my only arm --  _ and he’s close, he’s so close but there is that guilt again --  _ I am so sorry I am so -- _ and with a half-bitten cry he comes, moves his hand from Maglor’s throat as he presses his face to his brother’s chest, murmurs his name against his sweat slicked skin.

He does not want to move, not yet, but everything hurts and it takes a moment to realize the hurt is not just in his body but his  _ spirit _ .

Maglor lays still beneath him, as if he knows, and maybe he does. Threads his fingers through Maedhros’ cropped hair and whispers nonsense, tries to tell him that it is alright, that he is alright, that this is alright and it is a lie.

They both know it.

“Tell me what you are thinking, Nelyo.” Maglor asks, his fingers stilling in his hair. “You never tell me what you are thinking any more.” This is emotion in his voice, something that Maedhros cannot quite place, something he feels as though he has lost years ago and he does not have the energy to mourn its loss. He does not know if even cares that it is gone.

Maedhros shifts, rolls to lie beside Maglor, his thoughts a blur, a fogged mess of things that he had known for sure and things now uncertain. The landscape of their future shifts; he has never claimed a gift for foresight, has never truly wanted to know how it will all end but now he thinks he knows.

He sees nights like this, days of oil and fire and nights where they hurt each other and call it love. He sees an endless march of these until someone comes for them -- they will always come, for them, for the jewels, in the end they will always come. More blood, more death, one more thing to further drive that wedge between them.

“Would you really have tried to break the oath?” He asks, looks up at the ceiling, at the wall so close to their bed, anywhere but at Maglor. There is a silence that stretches for an eternity between them, each second measured by the steady beat-beat-beat of his heart as he waits for something, for anything, and he is not sure which answer would be worse.

“I do not know,” Maglor says at last, exhales likes he has been holding his breath and when he reaches for Maedhros’ hand he lets him take it, limp and unfeeling. His blood is ice in his veins,  _ this cannot go on _ , but it will. “I do not really know, Nelyo.”

“Go to sleep.” He says and Maglor lets go of his hand like he has burned him, like his hand was one of the jewels locked away in a crude box in the room, light shining through the seams as if to taunt them forever and he realizes it’s  _ hate _ . He hates this, he hates their failure, he hates even the Silmarils because what have they now but mementos of a past lost to them forever.

They are the last ones.

What had he thought would happen? That they would recover the jewels and somehow everything would be alright? That somehow, somehow, they would get back all they had lost? That their brothers, their father, their lives and their futures would be handed to them with a pat on the back --  _ good job boys, you sure showed us _ \-- and he wants to weep for it, wants to yell and scream, wants to take the jewels and throw them from a mountaintop and tell the Valar  _ look what you have done to us, you win, you win. _

He cannot. He  _ will not _ . They have sacrificed too much to simply give them up and yet --

He turns to look, looks past Maglor to where the box sits, still shining in the dark of the shack and he just wants to cry but the tears still refuse to come. He  _ hates  _ them; it was never supposed to be like this.

“I am losing you,” Maglor says, and Maedhros has to bite back a laugh because his brother does not realize the weight of his words.

A thousand thoughts run through his mind. A thousand could have beens, a thousand what ifs, and they all leave him feeling hollow.

Two silmarils for the last two brothers. It is almost poetic and maybe one day Maglor will write a song about it.

He wonders if their father can see them somehow and the thought of that hurts him more than anything.

“What if father is in the darkness?” He whispers, and feels Maglor tense beside him.

“Do not say such things.”

Maedhros laughs then, because it is all coming around again. He wonders if they will fight again, will they fuck again? He laughs and laughs until Maglor’s face appears above him, angry and eyes full of tears and he hates him for that, that he can still weep for it all.

“He swore the oath brother, you were there!” He gasps it out between fits of laughter, high and loud and manic, echoing in the room, “Eternal darkness if we should fail, and we failed! We have only two of his gems, the greatest works of Feanor.”

“Nelyo --”

“We failed him. We recovered only two of the gems and we failed. We cannot even hold them, what should be our birthrights and we cannot even bear to look at them.”

“Then why did we do it?” Maglor spits, seizes hold of Maedhros’ hair and Maedhros just laughs all the louder for it because there it is, there is that anger, that desperation, that rage that made his brother a kinslayer for all his lamenting, for all his regret. “Tell me why we bothered if not because we had hope?”

“Because we had no other choice, is that what you want to hear?” He grins with the words, tastes blood on his teeth. “You want to be absolved of it, admit it brother. You want to play that we had no choice, that the oath moved us to our actions when you knew as well as I did the moment we crept into the camp that there was no happy ending for us.”

Maglor lets go of him then, stares at him in the dim light -- the light of the jewels and oh how he has grown to hate them -- and sighs.

“I told you to have a drink.” Maglor says quietly, lays down heavily on his back and they lay there -- like they had once, so long ago, children in Valinor and Maglor had had a bad dream.

_ I dreamed father was gone. _

_ It is just a dream, brother. Go to sleep _ .

“Are you always going to be like this?” Maglor asks, and Maedhros scrubs his hand over his face. “After we are, you know,” he gestures and laughs, low and bitter. “Because there is not much else for us to do in the meantime, and I would like to, again.”

“You cannot even say it.”

“Fuck.” And it is Maglor’s turn to laugh now. It starts as a giggle, and soon he is curled against Maedhros’ side, begging for some comfort that he cannot bring himself to give, half laughter and half sobs and this, he thinks, he hates most of all. That this innocence between them is gone forever, he cannot bring himself to touch his brother in love, in comfort, when it has been his responsibility from the moment they stepped foot on these shores.

“I never thought father would die.”

“Please do not bring him up again after this,” Maglor sighs, face pressed against Maedhros’ side. “None of us did.”

“Go to sleep.”

“You are talking to me,” Maglor’s fingers idly touch his chest and he presses even closer, stretches out against the length of him. “I have been robbed of this for so long, please do not take it away from me now that I have it again.”

He wants to tell him to sleep, wants to tell him that he is sorry, wants to tell him a thousand things but the words will not come and he lies there instead, staring at the ceiling wondering  _ where do we go from here? _

It would be too easy to give in, to accept that this is it, that this is their future for good or ill, and ill it will be. Maedhros wants to tell him  _ I love you,  _ but even that will not come. 

“Where should we go from here?” Maedhros asks, the words tumbling from his lips. “Hmm? Where would you like to go, what shall we do next?”

Maglor lifts his head, peers at him curiously and Maedhros hates --  _ ha, there it is again --  _ how trusting of him he is, after this, after everything. “Go where?”

“I believe I asked you that.” Wills his body to relax and wraps his arm loosely around his brother, strokes his fingers down his side and feels Maglor press into the touch. “You and I both know we cannot stay here forever, so where next?”

Maglor hums, and Maedhros knows that he is falling asleep at last. “I do not know. East maybe? See what is left of the world? Find some place where no one knows us and try to start over?”

It is a lovely sort of dream, a lie they can both tell each other, but if it helps tonight then he will go along with it. “I like that.” He says softly, lays his palm over Maglor’s hip and listens to his brother’s breathing even out as he drifts away. “We can travel, see the world.” He is not sure if Maglor can even hear him, but he wants to give him this, if he cannot give him anything else.

Sleep will not find him tonight, and he does not care either way. He has lost track of all his sleepless nights, more the norm for him that any sort of peace and when he knows that Maglor is lost to him in, drifting into dreams of his own he is left to his thoughts, his own thoughts. Thoughts he can turn over and over --  _ like a stone, like a jewel --  _  in his mind.

They turn to his father and he bites his lip until it bleeds. He wonders again if he can see them somehow and what he must think of them. Silmarils be damned, can he see them like this, is he pacing the Halls of Mandos waiting for his sons to join him in their judgement? Is he tearing his hair, is he cursing them for failing him not once but twice? Is he cursing him?

_ You were supposed to take care of them, Nelyo. _

No, and he knows this. He knows his father, knows his love for them and knows that for all his hurt, for all the betrayal that would be writ across his features he would mourn more for their pain, for their death, for all their hurt and loneliness even if he could not understand what drove them to this, to this night.

It would be easier if he cursed them. That, he could handle, the anger, the condemnation, that would be easier than this, knowing that one day he might see his father and never have to answer for this, all of this, and yet they would all pay the price for it.

Sleep will not come for him, there will be no peace, and he wonders if there will ever be any peace, any comfort for them.

_ Would you have tried to break the oath? _

_ I do not know. _

Could it have been so easy? Could they have sued for pardon? He grips the threadbare blanket tight in his fist and tries not to think, begs for oblivion, for just a moment where he does not have to think about this, about anything. The Void would be easier, and he bites into his lip again, licks at the blood there and twists the blanket around his fingers. 

How had it come to this, that the Everlasting Darkness would be a comfort compared to this unliving? Perhaps it was a weakness in him that he can not live with this but he is tired, he is so heartsick and so  _ tired _ and he wants to sleep.

Maedhros turns his head then, looks at his brother sleeping peacefully beside him and wonders what it is he dreams of, and does he dream at all? Does he dream of better times, the golden days and silver nights in Valinor, when life was simpler? They had wanted freedom and now they had it and for Maedhros it feels more like chains than all their father had ever cried out against.

Maglor would survive this, and he knows it. Knows it as well as he knows anything anymore and he presses the back of his hand to his mouth, stifling the sound that catches in his throat, not a laugh, not a sob, some feral thing that he learned so long ago. It beats behind his lips and tells him that he is -- that he is what? That he is tired, that he does not want to do this, whatever this is, any more.

Maglor would survive, whatever survival meant. He could write his own story, could paint whatever picture he wanted of what happened to them, what they had done, could spin pretty words until the truth blurred and blurred until it could hardly be called that anymore but he would survive it.

Maedhros is tired of running. He is tired of pushing away the darkness, of trying to stay one step ahead of consequence and damnation and whatever it is that waits for him in the aftermath. He is  _ tired _ , but there is no sleep for him, no peace. He is burning, and maybe it is poetic but he does not want songs, he does not want stories. He wants --  _ what do I want? _

Freedom. He wants simply to be free.

He looks to the box where the silmarils sit, as caged as he is now. Two of them, one for each brother and finally, finally the tears come. They prick at the corners of his eyes and refuse to fall and he thinks what is one more hurt in the scheme of it all? He thinks  _ I want to go for a walk, get some fresh air _ , and it’s a lie but what is one more lie.

_ Just a walk _ , he thinks as he slides out of the bed and stand on shaky legs.  _ Just a walk _ as he reaches blindly for his clothes, his eyes never leaving the box.  _ Just a walk _ as he thinks of how the jewels burn brightly even now, burned their hands, burning burning burning  _ just like father did. _

He looks back to the bed where Maglor still sleeps and he thinks for a moment that he is dead. It is not fear or panic that grips him but for a moment he feels a sort of jealousy, and that shames him more than all the blood on his hands, more than all the words that have gone unsaid, more than the weight of all his failures.

Maglor shifts on the bed, seeking out his warmth, tangling in the blanket and Maedhros tells himself _I am_ _just going for a walk_ as his hand falls upon the box.


End file.
